


For Heaven's Snake

by gutterandthestars



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: First Kiss, Getting Together, Idiots in Love, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Other, Romantic Fluff, Snake!Crowley - Freeform, What a good snek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-13
Updated: 2019-06-13
Packaged: 2020-05-02 13:54:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19200208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gutterandthestars/pseuds/gutterandthestars
Summary: Crowley is stuck as a snake. Aziraphale does his best to help. Perhaps in the process of sorting this all out they can also sort out their feelings. Maybe?





	For Heaven's Snake

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jsunday](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jsunday/gifts).



 

Six months after the aborted Apocalypse, in the cosy interior of _A.Z. Fell and Co._ , Aziraphale is still familiarising himself with his new stock. Outside, February in London is up to its old tricks by being as miserable as any arbitrary four week period can consistently manage. Endless flat, grey clouds squat low over the city and the rain has settled in for a solid day of mizzling; its futile blatter against the window putting Aziraphale in mind of a thwarted customer, firmly kept from intruding on the warmth of the shop by the trusty latticed panes.

It’s the kind of afternoon that calls for hot cocoa, a blanket(1) and sheepskin lined slippers(2). Aziraphale, firmly ensconced at his desk, has all three and is perfectly at peace with the world. On the one hand, it’s unutterably foul outside, but on the other hand, it’s unlikely anyone will be popping in on a whim. He’s carefully paging through a pristine first edition of _Biggles Takes It Rough_ (3) when he’s interrupted by the muffled sound of breaking glass from the direction of the tiny lavatory at the back of the shop.

Heart thumping, he straightens up, wary. He marks his page with last week’s theatre tickets - Tennessee Williams’ _Summer and Smoke_ at the Almeida; he and Crowley both agreed the director was a talented young woman to watch - and takes care to place the book on his desk. Easing back out of the chair with all the stealth he can muster, he heads for the utility room that leads to the little water closet, picking up the closest weapon to hand. It happens to be an umbrella with an automatic release and one flick of his thumb will cause it to burst forth in full rainbow glory. He brandishes it and heads for the privy.

In his quest to be as unaccommodating as possible to Soho’s prospective customers, Aziraphale has never been so foolish as to advertise the existence of the bookshop’s smallest room. He doesn’t think anyone’s actually ventured in there since the eighties and he has mostly accepted it as the designated spot for spiders to skulk and multiply. Generations of arachnids rise and fall, and Aziraphale leaves them to it.

He gives the door a tremulous poke with the umbrella to little effect.

Then he pokes it again.

Finally, he gives up on the umbrella and puts his shoulder into it and the swollen doorframe give way under his weight with a groan and a slam. Aziraphale staggers inside, displacing the cobwebs of decades. 

The room is empty, apart from the ancient porcelain paraphernalia and some very put-out spiders.The damp and musty odour of years is disturbed by the fine rain gusting through the broken window, which opens onto the empty back alley. The torn webs clinging to every surface billow in the breeze.

“…Hello?” he manages, quelling his nerves and redoubling his grip on the umbrella.

For a moment, nothing stirs except the tattered webs. Then the floor tiles start to move.

Aziraphale squeaks and his thumb tightens on the handle of the umbrella just enough to brush the catch. He’s knocked back with a face full of nylon and aluminium, and for a few moments he’s occupied with splutters and struggling. By the time he’s imposed his will on the dratted thing and finally has it furled, there’s a snake pushing its way past his ankles, hauling itself sluggishly into the room and hissing like a kettle.

Aziraphale _eeeps_. Then he takes a hold of himself because really, only one snake-shaped being is likely to break into his bookshop in the most awkward manner imaginable. He takes a good look, and it strikes him just what a sorry state the poor thing is in. It’s looking terribly bedraggled, slick with rain and spattered with clumps of debris - Aziraphale doesn’t want to examine those too closely - which cling to its scales. The plastic wrapper from a Werther’s Original is stuck to one side of its head.

“Oh my,” says the angel to the snake. “Crowley? Is that you? What _are_ you doing?”

The snake coils angrily, or tries to. Its actions seem slow and oh dear. Aren’t snakes cold blooded? That can’t be good. It looks as if the dear thing has made its way through the worst of London’s alleys and gutters only to collapse on Aziraphale’s floor. Really, Crowley should know better. He has a car, for Heaven’s sake.

“Why on earth have you been out in this like that?” he gestures to the draft from the broken window and the steady drizzle. “Did you walk, sorry, slither here, all the way from your flat?”

The snake gives another listless hiss and winds itself around Aziraphale’s ankle, seeking the heat under his trouser cuffs and nosing its way up his calf and, “Oh. Oh! Stop it, you infernal wyrm!” he yelps and shakes his trouser leg free of wet snake. “Goodness, what _are_ you thinking, are you… Are you _stuck like that_ , Crowley?” He peers down, wrinkling his nose at the hint of sewerage.

Hissing ensues.

“I’m sorry, dear boy, I didn’t catch that.”

Crowley’s current form is unable to throw up its hands in disgust, being rather at a disadvantage in the arms department(4), but he manages to make the disgust part perfectly clear all the same.

“Oh dear,” sighs Aziraphale, and bends to fetch a towel from the cupboard under the utility room sink. He snugs it around the snake on the floor and lifts him up, takes him to the back room of the shop and perches on the sofa with the towel on his knees, the snake buried in its folds.

Aziraphale takes care to be gentle as he pats Crowley dry. He discards the sweet wrapper and wipes his friend’s scales free of grit and muck, murmuring sympathy and endearments to the sad, chilly noodle slowly warming under the strokes of his hands. Crowley’s too lethargic to complain to start with but after a few minutes in the warmth of the back room, curled in Egyptian cotton flannel in Aziraphale’s lap, he perks right up. He noses into Aziraphale’s cocoa, only to recoil in distaste. He pokes his way under the cushions and slithers up to the drinks cabinet, rapping his snout against the glass. He looks meaningfully over at Aziraphale.

“I’m not sure wine is a terribly good idea in your current condition, Crowley,” he says, apologetically.

Crowley hisses at him.

“I really must insist, my dear,” he sighs.

Crowley makes his way back across the carpet, drops his blunt muzzle onto Aziraphale’s slipper and closes his eyes in defeat.

“You stay right here,” says Aziraphale, bending to pat his demon counterpart on the head before straightening up and toeing out of his slippers. “I’m just heading out. I’ll be back momentarily, we’ll sort this out. All will be well. Never fear. It’s alright.”

 

===

 

It’s embarrassing is what it is, thinks Crowley. 

Metamorphosis always made him nervous and this is exactly why. One moment you’re a demon choosing to inhabit the shape of a snake, and then you think, _Oh I quite fancy a drink or ten with my angelic-bestie-slash-perpetual-object-of-forbidden-adoration_ and go to change back and then: nightmare. You’ve forgotten how. And then you panic and go for help but you can’t drive like this, you’re a snake, a lowly worm crawling on your belly through something you wish was as benign as dust, dodging pedestrians and traffic and bloody sewer rats all the way across London to find the one person in the world who won’t run screaming, attack you or call out the RSPCA.

But then when you do find that one person - and break into their sodding downstairs bog because you can’t exactly ring their bloody doorbell - they scoop you up and pat you down and wrap you in warm towels and, well, that’s quite nice. More than nice. If Crowley’s honest with himself.

So, yes, it’s embarrassing but it could be worse. 

Crowley insinuates himself under the sofa cushions and the tartan blanket he’s tugged away from the desk chair and across the room to build a makeshift nest. It’s not nearly as warm in here without Aziraphale. Crowley burrows into the soft folds and tries not to shiver. 

When Aziraphale eventually returns, he’s balancing stacks of boxes and dragging the handle of a… Oh, Go… whatever. Is that a tartan shopping-bag-on-wheels? Oh, angel. And here’s Crowley, who doesn’t even have the vocal chords to mock him for being such an old woman.

“Well, we don’t know how long this,” Aziraphale waves a hand in the direction of Crowley’s immortal coils, “is going to last so I thought we’d better be prepared.” He bustles into the centre of the room and pulls various boxes and parcels from his execrable excuse for a shopping bag. “I can’t always be around to keep you warm.”

 _More’s the pity_ , thinks Crowley with a tiny, internal and hopelessly self-indulgent sigh.

Aziraphale, as usual, is oblivious to Crowley’s moping and looks infernally pleased with himself. “I looked this up on the You Tube!” he says, making Crowley wish he had a hand to press to his face. “Here’s a heat mat, that’s for starters,” Aziraphale says, waving a flat rubber pad attached to a power lead before placing it on the floor in a corner between the sofa and an armchair.

The angel plugs it in, scrabbling for the sockets on his hands and knees. Then he reaches over and lifts Crowley bodily before depositing him on top of the pad.

The cheek of it, thinks Crowley. What’s all this? Oh no. Is Aziraphale building him a reptile habitat? No, no. That’s just… It’s insult to injury, is what it is. No. Crowley’s cold blood boils with impotent rage. He rears, baring his fangs and hissing. His jaw snaps shut just short of Aziraphale’s nose.

“There’s no call for that sort of thing,” says the angel, sounding hurt and sitting back on his heels. “I’m only trying to help.”

That’s not the point, he thinks. This is defamation of character. This isn’t Aziraphale treating him like an equal; this is Aziraphale treating him like a _pet_. Crowley is not a snake. He a demon, the original tempter, the scourge of Eden, the… oh, the mat really is getting quite warm though. Hmm. Oh. Oh yes, that’s delicious.

Oh, okay.

Fine.

Aziraphale, the bastard, smiles all across his smug, smug face. Crowley watches as he excavates more objects than can possibly have fit into the bag without ethereal intervention out onto the floor. He refrains from crafting a Mary Poppins joke to make later, when he can actually talk. Glass houses and all that.

Crowley saunters over to nose at some rocks.

“I brought a selection,” explains the angel, holding up one particularly polished slab. “Look: black, shiny, it’s very you, Crowley. Obsidian. For an ophidian, you see. Ha ha.”

Crowley gives the angel a Look. No.

“Well, you could give it a go,” pouts Aziraphale, propping the rock at an angle against his thigh and all but batting his eyelashes at Crowley. Unfair.

Crowley throws his sinuous loops over the glassy surface, hitches himself up and pointedly allows himself to slide off slowly backwards, maintaining eye contact with the angel the entire time. The scales of his belly make a very satisfactory and passive aggressive squeaking noise as he does so. He ends up in a tangle of coils on the carpet next to the rock.

“No?” says Aziraphale. “No, I see. Too polished, my dear. No, you need something with some… some…” Aziraphale flutters his fingers, grasping for the word, “… some purchase. You’re quite polished enough yourself.”

Well. Damn right. Crowley preens. 

“I thought serpentinite might be fitting, but I looked it up and while it’s probable that asbestos minerals pose no risk to the likes of us, I shouldn’t like to put anyone else in danger. Customers are dreadful, but one doesn’t wish to resort to manslaughter, even _in potentia_. There might be young children around, though of course I hope not. Really, Crowley, last Tuesday a mother brought in a perambulator and a child with a sippy cup that was most assuredly not secured. In my bookshop. I feared for my monographs, I quite…”

Crowley hisses, interrupting. He rolls his eyes, best he can.

“Yes, yes, alright. Well, anyway, Welsh slate then,” says Aziraphale, bringing out another slab. “Lovely dark purple and with these subtle minty green spots, look, they’ll set your scales off beautifully. Smooth, but not too smooth. Very chic. Will this do?”

Crowley nudges the rock with a flicker of forked tongue. Credit where it’s due, it actually is quite stylish. Muted, dark and a bit dangerous. Smooth on top with sharp edges. Acceptable.

Aziraphale takes Crowley’s interest for the approval it is, and Crowley watches him fuss around, testing the balance of the rocks, making them secure in the little corner nook. There’s the dark void of the space under the sofa and plenty of escape routes.

Aziraphale looks fond as Crowley explores, before raising a finger in the air and exclaiming, “Oh! Plants.” He fumbles around in the bag again, chattering away. “I do know how you like plants. I hope we can get this all resolved before too long - and never fear, I have a plan - but for now I thought these might make you feel more at home. I know you’re very particular, so let’s see if I can get this right.”

Aziraphale draws out a series of spiky succulents. He places them in a row in front of his knees and gives them a pinched look.

“Now, um, how would you go about this?” Aziraphale frowns worriedly down. He selects a pot containing an aloe, brings it up to his level _a la_ Yorick, and wags a manicured finger. “Now listen up and look around _._ ” He gestures with the pot, giving it a full view around his shop. “Each and every book is made from the pulped remains of other plants who were slack in their duties, so you had better grow properly, you hear? And if I see so much as a yellow…” the angel frowns at the plant, tipping it this way and that, “yellow, um, spike, I shall… _He_ shall…” Aziraphale pauses. “There will be consequences, understand?”

Huh. Not too shabby, angel.

Aziraphale beams at him, and Crowley is momentarily stunned. He feels a traitorous warmth unrelated to the slates he’s sitting on. Hoo boy. He gives an uncomfortable wriggle.

Aziraphale is still talking. “I should get you some food, if this keeps up,” he says to Crowley. “I do feel sorry for the poor mice, but maybe that’s alright because you barely eat anyway. And I shall sort this out, I promise. So, right, maybe I won’t have to prepare you any rodents after all. You’ll be back to your usual soon enough and we shall go out for dessert. Do snakes have dessert?(5) Never mind. Now let me set these out…”

Crowley lazes on the warming rocks and watches through slitted eyelids as Aziraphale chats away and places potted plants around him and then fetches a series of sun lamps to ratchet up the heat even further.

 _Just enjoy the warmth while it lasts, demon_ , he tells himself. _It’s enough_.

 

===

 

Is it enough?

Crowley seems happy, thinks Aziraphale. Jumpy? Frequently. Snappish, yes, but then he often is, and the whole stuck-as-a-snake mess must be stressful for him. He’s drowsing now, though, twined around a flower pot on the hot rocks, perfectly at home. Home. 

Aziraphale sighs. He’s doing that a lot lately.

It’s nice, he thinks. Having Crowley near. Watching him settle in, warm and smooth, the lamps casting a low glow in the comfortable gloom of the bookshop. Crowley himself seems to be teetering on the edge of sleep, eyes drifting slowly shut before widening briefly, over and over.

They hum, the sun lamps, like the sizzle of locusts on in the heat of the desert. It takes him back to the very First days, the near-endless sands to the east of Eden, and the strange demonic creature who seemed to turn up everywhere, like a bad penny(6). Who sidled up to him and smiled, made him laugh. And then had proceeded to continue to do so with increasing regularity ever since. Before, Aziraphale had shied away, again and again. One of them had to. He’d felt the huff of Heaven’s hot breath down his neck and the weight of its Authority, the certainty of Consequences, always close on their heels should anyone notice perhaps he was a little too familiar with one particular Agent of Chaos. And now…

And now? He doesn’t know. Mostly he wants to hang on to this as long as he’s allowed to have it. 

Aziraphale sighs again. For all that this is rather lovely in the moment, he does need to follow through on his promise and see if they can resolve things. He claps his hands to his knees with purpose and levers himself to his feet.

He makes his way to the telephone and dials - really dials, with an actual rotary - Tadfield 666.

Adam’s father answers, but Aziraphale can hear the boy clattering up to the phone saying, “It’s alright, Dad. I was expecting the call,” above the barking of a dog in the background.

“If you say so,” says Mr. Young, dubiously, but he must hand over the phone as the next thing Aziraphale hears is the Destroyer of Kings, Prince of This World, Spawn of Satan, etc, etc, etc, take up the call with a polite, “How do you do, Mr. Aziraphale?”

Say what you like, and Aziraphale is indebted to the boy, he is, but the lad is honestly, just a bit, a tad, even a smidgeon… _Creepy_ , supplies Crowley’s imagined voice inside his head. _Creepy_ , agrees Aziraphale, girding his angelic loins(7).

“Adam, I’m terribly sorry to bother you but we have a teensy problem. I was reading one of the new - and most kindly restored - books this evening when I heard a distinct tinkling from the direction of the toilet…” Adam snickers down the phone. “Pardon?” says Aziraphale, and then realises. “Oh stop it, you young rotter, that’s not what I meant. It was breaking glass.”

“Sorry,” says Adam, in a tone that suggests he is nothing of the sort. “This is about your demon friend, isn’t it. He’s got himself stuck.”

“Er, yes,” says Aziraphale. See? Creepy.

“I think he just needs sleep, you know?” says Adam. “Maybe just let him rest, it’ll fix itself. It will all work out. Promise.”

“Er, it will? Oh. That’s good to know,” says Aziraphale, twiddling the telephone cable.

“You can call if it doesn’t, but I need to have my tea now,” says Adam, firmly.

“Well if so, I thank you ever so much, dear boy.” 

“That’s alright. You should look after him, make sure he’s got all the things snakes like. Like, pictures of vanquished hordes of mongooses, and aeroplanes and things.”

“Er, I’ll bear that in mind,” says Aziraphale, who’s just confused. “Thanks.”

“Bye,” says Adam, and hangs up.

Aziraphale suppresses a genteel shudder, then places the receiver on the cradle and turns to Crowley’s corner. “Adam’s certain you’ll be back to normal in no time, Crowley, don’t you worry,” he tells him. “He was terribly childish, but I suppose he is only eleven. Honestly, the human preoccupation with bodily functions, I don’t…”

Aziraphale lets his words tail off as he takes in the sight in front of him. Crowley is really asleep now, coiled on the rocks. He may be stuck in his scales, but somehow while Aziraphale’s back was turned he’s managed to miracle - do demons miracle? - a tiny pair of sunglasses, perched on his wedge shaped head. He’s making tiny, hissy, snores. It’s quite, quite adorable.

“Oh, my love,” says Aziraphale, fingers splayed to his chest, right over the sudden ache, and goes to fetch his camera.

Several photographs - that Crowley is never going to find out about - later, Aziraphale looks fondly on his friend, his dear friend, and picks up his book from the desk, taking it to the sofa. He sits carefully and quietly on the edge of the seat closest to the little pile of rocks and reptile and keeps watch. Adam’s advice can wait till morning, he thinks, indulgently(8).

Aziraphale doesn’t sleep, as a rule, but it’s possible he nods off on the sofa next to the heat of the lamps and the buzz, buzz, buzz of the filaments. He wakes from his doze as the clock’s long hand is nudging towards the half hour and the little hand has just passed the three. He hitches himself up so he can see over the edge of the sofa, hangs an arm down to hover one extended finger over Crowley’s still form, the little sunglasses slightly askew on his snout. He doesn’t touch, he just… He likes to know that he could.

“He says you’re fine, you know,” he whispers. “Adam, I mean. He says you’re free to change back. When you wake up. It’s selfish, but I like having you here, all warm and safe and with me. I don’t imagine you’d let me hold you in my lap and stroke you when you’re back to yourself? No? No, I suppose not.”

He tuts to himself. Self pity is unbecoming in an angel and he really ought to stop and reign it in. Having Crowley in his arms and smoothing him down, taking care of him - it’s closer to Heaven than Heaven ever was. 

Aziraphale sighs - yes alright, again, it’s unconscionable - like the soft, ridiculous mess he is. “Oh, my love,” says to the sleeping snake. “I’m here. I know I make you wait; I know I can’t quite keep up. But I’m here. I’m right here.”

He lets his head fall back against the upright cushions and closes his eyes. They’re still squeezed tight shut when he feels something slithering into his lap and he startles like a frightened rabbit.

Oh _shoot._

“Oh! Oh, my dear boy, were you awake? Oh, no. Oh, I’m terribly sorry. I’ll, er, I’ll just give you some space, here, you change back and I’ll, I’ll… I’ll make us some tea,” he babbles.

Aziraphale goes to flee, but Crowley’s coils pour into his lap, heavy and pressing him back into the sofa. He trills, and flickers his forked tongue in Aziraphale’s face, and damn... darn it, he doesn’t speak snake. Crowley stays put, though. He’s waiting. He’s always waiting, thinks Aziraphale. He sniffs. Then he lifts a trembling hand and runs his fingers down the back of Crowleys scales.

Crowley’s yellow eyes close and his body sways forward, serpentine head ending up on Aziraphale’s shoulder. He feels a fluttering of forked tongue against his neck. Aziraphale heaves a breath.

“Come back, love. You can, you know. Come home. For me.” He strokes one long stroke, back down and up again, and Crowley twitches, and Aziraphale all of a sudden has a lapful of demon, human shaped, head on his shoulder, long legs stretched out along the sofa.

“Time to face the music, angel,” rasps Crowley, in his ear.

 

===

 

Snakes don’t have ears _per se_ (9), which makes it damn hard to make sunglasses sit right unless you’re a demon who can miracle them in place. Crowley is, and can, and does - all to make Aziraphale laugh. He doesn’t mean to fall asleep, but the warmth and the gentle vibration from the lamps lull him into torpor and he naps, little sunglasses fixed firmly to his nose.

He’s woken by jolting and squirming emanating from the sofa, shuddering through the floor to the rocks, and senses a hand hovering above him. He stays still, just in case. He’s wary of spooking the angel attached to the hand; that hand has fingers and if he remains motionless there’s a chance he’s going to feel them running down his scales again. He’d like that.

But then Aziraphale starts to talk, and talk, and sigh, and talk, and he’s using _words_ , and there’s such want in them, the kind of want he only usually expresses with his eyes and never, never vocalises. He calls Crowley _love._  

And then he’s silent again, and still.

Well, bugger _that_.

He crawls into the angel’s warm lap, this angel who calls him love and goes all out to make him feel at home despite Aziraphale’s own fretful constitution, his awful superiors and six thousand years of internalised phobias.

Aziraphale panics, because of course he does, and tries to stand and oh, no chance. Crowley thinks _stick_ and wills himself heavier. He isn’t, really - heavier, that is - but the tactic works wonders for cats and Crowley knows when to imitate the masters. _Stay_ , he thinks, forcefully. _You said you’d stay_. He tastes the air with his tongue, that fond and familiar smell, and hopes with all his being.

Aziraphale makes a noise that could be a sniff, could be a sob.

Crowley’s thinking he still hasn’t had his scales stroked, but then Aziraphale brings his hand to Crowley’s back, smooths it down, and that’s the stuff. Crowley’s currently-snake-shaped, demonic little heart clenches in his abdomen and he surges forward to rest on Aziraphale’s shoulder and taste the skin just above his collar. Bliss. And it comes with love. For him. Finally. Oh, angel.

Aziraphale is murmuring, calling to him, strokes him again, down and back, and Crowley tries to reach out. This time he succeeds. Limbs everywhere.

 _Welp. That happened_ , he thinks.

Crowley takes inventory: two arms, two legs, decent outfit, sunglasses up in his hair, everything seems present and correct. He’s in Aziraphale’s lap - his lap, by the sainted ghost of Freddie Mercury! - his head resting on Aziraphale’s actual shoulder. So he leans up and whispers a challenge in the nearest angelic ear.

“Face the music? You know I don’t dance,” says Aziraphale, weakly. “Not unless it’s the gavotte, and I know you’re not keen.”

Aziraphale’s prevaricating; Crowley’s unsurprised, but he can cope with a little deflection. Just a little. “Are you admitting a weakness for a touch of Irving Berlin, angel? He was one of yours, you know. Frightfully well meaning.” Crowley wraps his arms around the angel’s neck, wriggles to get comfortable. Aziraphale eeeps; his eyes are squeezed shut. Crowley bends to run his lips over the shell of one perfect ear.

Crowley warms all the way through to his insides as Aziraphale shudders.

“If you’re going to quibble,” continues Crowley, “no moonlight either, not in this filthy weather. No music, although we could wind up the grammophone. No, I was talking about the other things.”

“Love?” says Aziraphale, tremulously. “Romance?”

“How about it?” asks Crowley, trying to be cool and quite possibly failing. Aziraphale is silent, and Crowley feels his heart sink. He was so sure. “Wait. Did you mean it?” he says, fear worming its treacherous way into the fallen depths of his - possibly non-existent - soul.

Aziraphale shifts so he can look him in the eye, and oh, thats a good face. That’s a very good face.

“Of course I meant it, you foolish serpent,” says Aziraphale, sounding contrite. “I’m sorry, my love, I’m so sorry. For everything.” He takes Crowley’s face in his hands. Crowley might actually explode. Boom. Bits of demon everywhere. Would be a real shame, particularly since if he can hold it together long enough he might finally get kissed. The angel is still apologising; Crowley feels a demonic grin steal across his face.

“Aziraphale?”

“Er, yes?”

“Shut up.”

“Make me,” says Aziraphale, and he sounds a little stubborn, a little brave.

“Gladly”, says Crowley, and does.

Crowley doesn’t explode. He’s not sure what happens, but he’s certain exploding would involve less tongue. Fewer needy noises, from either party. And probably not this melty, glowing feeling, whatever it is.

He thinks it might be joy.

After a while, they wriggle down to lie wrapped up in each other on the sofa cushions, tugging the hideous tartan blanket over themselves and trading kisses while outside the street starts to stir with the early morning noises of London. Lorries rumble by. The letter box rattles with the firm hand of the postman. The sounds of the rush hour crowds start to build up. Eventually, there’s a change in the quality of the light that suggests somewhere beyond the perpetual clouds, the sun is coming up.

Crowley registers all of this in a detached sort of way, with the mindless habit of a wary occult being who’s always watching his own back. But he’s not really paying attention. Not to anything that’s not the warm angel enthusiastically wound around him.

“Angel?” he mutters, having had an actual thought that’s not kissing related.

“Yes?”

“Thankssss. For the rocks.”

“That’s quite alright, my dear.”

They’re quiet. There’s more kissing. Crowley doesn’t want there ever not to be kissing.

“A thought occurs,” says Aziraphale.

“Huh?” says Crowley, leaning in to lick at the ticklish spot behind Aziraphale’s ear. He’s got plans for that spot.

“A thought. Occurs. To me,” clarifies the angel, voice hitching. The angel in his arms. In his arms. Oh, whoops, the angel who’s still talking. “And, well, maybe you should stay here for a while. Just in case this happens again. Can’t have you traipsing half way across town wearing only snakeskin, anything could happen.” 

Crowley hums.

“Can we keep the rocks?”

Aziraphale beams with that broad, angelic smile.

Crowley kisses it off his face.

THE END

* * *

 Footnotes:

  1. Tartan.
  2. Tartan.
  3. First published in 1963, an apparently more innocent age, _Biggles Takes It Rough_ was intended by author W.E. Johns to be a morality tale for his young audiences on the dangers of, ahem, strong liquor.
  4. Short-handed, as it were.
  5. Micecream sundaes, since you ask.
  6. Or the little used, but peculiarly specific, kitchen implement you never quite know what to do with but which seems to live in whatever draw you open, no matter what you’re actually looking for.
  7. None of your beeswax.
  8. Self-indulgently, you understand.
  9. Unlike ducks.



 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to a prompt from jsunday, who deserves particular credit for the little sunglasses. And many thanks to miriad for a quick beta!


End file.
